I am so sorry, Rapaire. I know my Acts of Will sometimes get a little zingy, causing spiritual perturbations in the aether in regions far beyond my normal mortal sphere of influence. I just didn't know you were in the line of fire. Oh, God, I feel like Dick Cheney!! I promise never to beam a psychic impulse in your direction again ever!!

Sit where you are and my puppy Poppy will come commiserate with you. She loves for someone to sit still so she can wiggle and cuddle and she'll lick your wounds. The dog hair will wash out, and the slobber isn't industrial strength like Cinnamon comes up with. When a pit bull licks you, you stay licked.

Good heavens, Mom! We turn our backs for just a little tiny moment and I find you nearly at the bottom, between Ghanaian sweets and smoking a White Horse folk festival! And you're all covered in...well, you're a fright! Here, go take a nice warm bath and have some lunch.

You do not have to use Kleenex on your toes. Instead, soak them for thirty minutes in water that starts out as hot as you can bear it. After twenty minutes or so, scrub the calluses off with one of those mini-cheese-graters they sell, and dig under the toenails and clean up the cuticles. When it's all done, soak them a bit longer, then towel them off and lather with a good skin cream, and put on clean soft socks.

Oh, LH. Surely you know there should be no comma in that sentence. And you know perfectly well wherefore he is Gluon--you were a member of the MOAB when he was named. Why do you ask why? Wherefore art thou Little Hawk?

So, you, object, to, my, misplaced, comma, do, you Amos? ;-) Get thee to a monastery, thou churl, thou vile cutpurse, and adorn thyself in sackcloth and ashes for the nonce. Thou art akin to a vile humour, weighing heavily upon the shrinking air and thou dost offend my senses most greivously. Therefore avaunt, scoundrel! Get thee hence, lest I with a bare bodkin put final surcease to thy wretched existence here and now and leave thee as offal for the carrion birds!

Go to, thou art a used wineskin, a wasted bit of boarfat not meet for hounds. Thou knowest full thou didst mistake thy where and thy wherefore, wherefore thou dost in giant clouds of drivel raise protest. Wert thou a candle thou wouldst shed no light; a cupboard, an' thou wouldst be bare; a glass, then empty of all good sport. Go thou to the Father and confess thy sins in good faith and be thou well-shrived, ere thou turn well-shriveled. Go to, thou clubfoot, thou jackanapes. Get thee to confession.

We could name them Up, Down, Charm, Strange, Top and Bottom if there were enough of them. Has anyone figured out a way to count them? And--I blush to ask, but it should be knwon--are they...um...entangled?

Near rhyme: Where the rhyme repeats, the sound is close but not exactly the same (given the varieties of dialect, this is probably typical of even most "perfect" rhymes in English).

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)...

from "My Last Duchess," Robert Browning (1842)

The first two lines of the clip are perfect rhymes. The second pair are near. The third pair are nearer.

Friend, your fugue taxes the finger Learning it once, who would lose it? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it- Nature, thro' cobwebs we string her.

from "Memorabilia," Robert Browning (1896)

"Linger" and "string her" are a near rhyme. "Lose it" and "refuse it" might be in some dialects.

So we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright....

from "So We'll go no more a roving," Lord Byron, 1817

"Roving" and "loving," in 1817, may have been exact rhyme but we don't have any direct means of finding out. Now, outside of Liverpool, they're near, though some may argue strictly for their being consonant rhyme.

She'd the brooch I had bought And the necklace and sash on, And her heart, as I thought, Was alive to my passion; And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion.

from "Atalanta in Camden Town," Lewis Carroll (1869)

"Sash on" and "passion" are a fine near rhyme.

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore...